Ch.438Episode 17 – The Blood-Drinking Tree

# World Refugee Protection Agency

The refugee camp established by the international community was unusually lively today.

“The Special Envoy from the Gavilia Union has arrived.”

“Prime Minister Jalal and President Marham will be here in 10 minutes.”

“Check the barricades and confirm the security personnel deployment in the event area.”

Peacekeeping forces with vigilant eyes surveyed the surroundings while the local president’s security detail patrolled the camp.

Under the impenetrable security, refugees gathered from all around, surrounding the tense-looking soldiers.

The camp was bustling for the first time in a while, with civilians, military personnel, and journalists all gathered in one place. The refugees’ faces, captured by magical recording devices, showed rare signs of life.

“……”

While observing the busy camp from the watchtower, Pippin came up the stairs and reported to me.

“Section Chief, the event is about to begin.”

“What about the security personnel inside the venue?”

“All deployed. The operation team is also in position.”

“……”

“Shall we go?”

“Let me finish burning this first.”

Pippin checked his radio and disappeared down the stairs. I tapped off the ash, put the cigarette back in my mouth, and looked up at the sky.

A clear blue sky without a single cloud.

Beyond the barbed wire fence stretched the desert, extending all the way to the horizon.

A vehicle carrying the Saint approached, cutting through the sandy wind.

## Episode 17 – The Tree That Drinks Blood

Right after finalizing the deal with Ibrahim, I parted ways with the operation team and went to find Francesca.

“What brings you here so late, Military Attaché?”

“I have a favor to ask.”

“Alright. Tell me.”

While I was meeting with Francesca, the Royal Intelligence Bureau’s operation team was dispatched to the scene.

*Screech!*

“Who are you people! What is this—mmph!”

“Make a sound and you die.”

The Royal Intelligence Bureau staff raided the residence of the Sanya militia, which had established itself in the southeast section of the refugee camp.

Although they had stopped tailing midway, finding the residence was easy thanks to information shared by a foreign government.

After picking the lock, the operation team successfully secured Yunus inside.

“Perimeter team stays outside, the rest enter. Gather anything that could be useful information.”

“Come with us for a bit, Yunus.”

While they put a hood over Yunus’s head and shoved him into a vehicle, intelligence officers who entered the residence swept documents and financial record storage devices into bags.

Having secured a mid-level Sanya official and numerous documents, the operation team left the refugee camp in their vehicles. The entire operation—from abduction to exit—took less than 10 minutes.

By the time I returned to the Royal Intelligence Bureau’s safe house, the operation team had already analyzed Yunus’s testimony and the Sanya militia’s materials.

“Did you find anything, Bill?”

“Plenty. First, we’ve identified the number of cultists the Sanya militia brought into this country.”

The Sanya militia’s recruiter, under interrogation by the Royal Intelligence Bureau, revealed some information.

Cross-referencing the materials secured from the residence with Yunus’s testimony, we learned that four cultists had entered the camp.

“Do we have their attack plans and schedule?”

“Not yet. According to Yunus, he only received money to help people cross the border; he claims he doesn’t know their identities or why they entered the country.”

Of course, no one believed that.

“I’ll ask you again, Yunus.”

“Ugh…”

“What’s the plan? Who are you targeting in the camp?”

“Just kill me, you bastards!”

“Words won’t do, I see. Fill the kettle and bring the car battery.”

Matt tortured Yunus to extract the information. A cloth covered his face as water poured over it, and electricity coursed through his fingers to his heart.

Through the half-open door, I could see Yunus receiving electric torture. Each time the power surged, he would arch his back like a bow and jump up repeatedly.

I watched this scene alongside Matt.

“I hear Yunus is still holding out.”

“He’ll talk soon.”

“Director Leoni wants us to find out by any means necessary before dawn.”

“We’ll try. Go see Larry. He might have found something.”

Matt said this as he closed the door. Through the narrowing gap, I could see Yunus slumped in his chair after the electric torture ended.

While the smell of burning flesh and rising steam was blocked by the door, I met Larry upstairs. The Royal Intelligence Bureau’s senior analyst was working with his team to crack the Sanya militia’s financial storage device.

“Matt asked me to see you, Larry.”

“Matt? Where is he now?”

“In the basement. Better not to know the details. So, what was in the gift box?”

Larry pushed up his glasses with a sinister smile.

“Hehe. See for yourself, friend.”

Larry led me into the analysis room and walked to a monitor. The senior analyst, moving his uncomfortable body to sit in a chair, tapped the screen.

“See this?”

“It’s a photo.”

Indeed it was a photo.

The monitor showed Sanya soldiers with their faces covered by black cloth. White text propaganda slogans occupied the edges, making it look like some kind of propaganda material.

Larry enlarged the photo and pointed to a corner. There, I could see a faint noise pattern.

“See this noise here?”

“Yes.”

Larry began to explain.

“It’s a trace of steganography.”

Steganography.

A technique for hiding codes within images. The unnatural noise in the corner was one of the typical characteristics of steganography.

“Seems the Sanya militia wasn’t just taking money from the Imperial Intelligence Unit. We found photos with steganography applied on the financial storage card we took from the recruiter’s residence.”

“Hmm… The Imperial Intelligence Unit probably didn’t formally teach them this; they must have picked it up somewhere or learned it crudely. Can you crack this?”

“You call that a question? Of course I can!”

His fingers danced across the keyboard.

The Royal Intelligence Bureau’s senior analyst inserted the photo into a decryption program and began breaking the code.

“Let’s see… The signature of the photo is intact.”

Larry disassembled the photo piece by piece and continued his analysis, checking where the file ended and examining the signature.

The militia’s crude encryption system was breached instantly.

Using the numbers and character strings found in the file, Larry noticed that something was hidden in document #16, which was locked. By combining the numbers and characters, he figured out the password.

“Got it. How long did that take?”

“Three minutes.”

“See? Told you I was good.”

The Royal Intelligence Bureau’s senior analyst shrugged his shoulders, like someone who had just solved a complex puzzle.

However, the level of encryption was crude even by the standards of when I was in the Intelligence Command, let alone by current Military Intelligence Agency standards.

I gave the childishly-acting analyst a disapproving look, and Larry cleared his throat, seemingly coming back to his senses and refocusing on the task.

“Anyway, let’s read what these militia guys tried so hard to hide.”

I leaned on the back of the chair and looked at the screen.

And shortly after.

When I went downstairs, I met Matt coming out of the torture room.

“Gather the team members, Matt.”

“Did you find something?”

“A little.”

“Good.”

The operation team leader, wiping sweat from his face, spoke.

“Let’s hear the plan.”

*

The southern gate, viewed from the watchtower, was crowded with people.

The president, leaning out of a sunroof and waving both arms. A Union diplomat exchanging greetings with the prime minister.

As the convoy of vehicles that had crossed the desert passed through the gate, a report from a peacekeeping force officer came through the radio.

-“The Saint is entering.”

I turned the dial to the secure channel and transmitted the news.

“Heart Queen has appeared. I repeat, Heart Queen has appeared.”

-“Confirmed.”

Operation team members blended into the crowd glanced at the southern gate.

As staff members who identified the vehicles dispersed to their positions, my eyes met Matt’s as he looked toward the watchtower.

I communicated with him through the radio.

“Do you see any suspects, Matt?”

-“No. Not yet.”

I surveyed the crowd from the watchtower. As Matt said, no one seemed to be plotting anything suspicious.

“Everyone, please focus. Mark anyone who looks suspicious. Anyone watching the venue or making frequent eye contact with the security team. Especially if you see someone sweating nervously, find them immediately.”

-“Everyone, keep your eyes wide open and search thoroughly. We need to catch them today.”

“Sniper team, report position.”

After a brief static noise, a strange meowing sound came through the radio.

-“Currently on standby on the 4th floor of the eastern building. The one with the green sign, nya.”

“Any unusual situations?”

-“Nothing special yet… The water I brought up from the 1st floor tastes rusty, nya.”

“Hold your nose and drink it.”

-“Meoooww!”

-“Ker’s meowing can be heard all the way to the rooftop! Someone please bring him some cat treats!”

I put away the radio, which was filled with the wailing of the beastkin and nymph, and hurriedly descended from the watchtower.

Unlike the southern gate, security around the watchtower was strict. This was a secure area where refugees and journalists were not allowed. Only soldiers could enter and exit this place.

When I reached the first floor, a soldier who had been waiting nearby followed me. Different attire from the peacekeeping forces. Dressed in civilian clothes with military gear and armed with a rifle, he was someone I knew.

“Have you found the cultists, Military Attaché?”

“No.”

Ibrahim.

Utland Knights, Crusader Brigade, 92541st Unit.

The church’s special operations operator, dressed in civilian clothes, approached me while surveying the surroundings.

“Bad news, then.”

I glanced at Ibrahim and asked a question.

“We’re currently working to locate them. How about your side?”

“My men are disguised as holy knights and placed in Saint Lucia’s security detail. As you can see, I’m disguised as an adventurer.”

He said “adventurer,” but to me, he looked more like a private security contractor.

Of course, the term “adventurer” wasn’t exactly wrong. In this area, adventurer was synonymous with mercenary. That’s why mercenaries preferred to be called adventurers.

The term “mercenary” strongly implied fighting for money. Though adventurers also moved for money, just the same.

Ibrahim and I walked between the barbed wire fences, exchanging information.

“We have Yunus with us. You received the information this morning, right?”

“Yes. The number of cultists who infiltrated the camp. We couldn’t identify their specific plans either, but Jake informed us of their ultimate goal.”

The church soldier continued.

“Saint Lucia’s blood. More precisely, securing her blood.”

That was correct.

After torturing the abducted Yunus and analyzing the materials secured by the operation team, the Royal Intelligence Bureau analysts discovered that the cultists’ goal was to obtain Lucia’s blood.

So the message left by the murdered informant—”They want the Saint’s blood”—wasn’t a metaphor for assassination but literally meant they wanted her blood.

I began.

“I wonder why the cult group is seeking Saint Lucia’s blood?”

“Probably to use it as an offering.”

The commander of the Crusader Brigade’s special operations unit, an expert on cultists, continued with his speculation.

“A cleric’s blood is good material for offerings. When divinity manifests, the residual divinity dissolved in the blood serves as a good medium. Cultists are focusing on this aspect.”

“Ah, I’ve heard about that. They use a cleric’s blood for something similar to divinity, right?”

“More precisely, mysticism.”

The way cultists utilize a cleric’s blood shares a similar context with how mages handle magic. Offering certain sacrifices to cause miracles. A kind of primitive sorcery.

Ibrahim believed that was the cultists’ purpose.

“Saint Lucia’s blood would be an incomparably better medium than any other cleric’s. Just like how a famous mage’s blood is traded at high prices on the black market.”

“What do the cultists plan to do with that blood?”

“I can’t guess that part either. Not all cultists think the same way. But whatever it is, I’m sure it’s nothing pleasant.”

I agreed with that sentiment.

We exchanged opinions as we moved toward the southern gate. Ibrahim explained based on his field experience and training, while I spoke based on information from the materials I had studied.

For reference, the materials I had seen were produced by Abas’s domestic intelligence agencies—the Cabinet Security Office, Special Investigation Bureau, and Magic Department. Compared to the Military Intelligence Agency, which focuses on military security and counterintelligence, borrowing materials related to cultists from domestic intelligence agencies was much more convenient, both in terms of quantity and expertise.

Particularly for cult issues, which border on mysticism, the Magic Department’s materials were very helpful. Researching mysticism is the domain of mages or religious figures.

A case in point is Ibrahim, who operates in Mauritania under the Vatican’s orders, eliminating cultists and securing mystical artifacts and relics.

I looked at this expert in cultists and mysticism.

“I understand you’ve done work related to mysticism here. Under the Vatican’s orders.”

“Most of my movements have been under the Pope’s orders, but I’ve also received requests from Al-Yabd a few times. They’re also interested in mysticism.”

“Ah, I heard Al-Yabd has an institution specializing in securing and researching mysticism.”

“The Relic Management Committee. It’s an Al-Yabd organization responsible for recovering and excavating relics. Mysticism is also under the committee’s purview.”

I asked if there was any information from Al-Yabd. Cult issues would be a serious concern for Al-Yabd as well.

However, Ibrahim didn’t seem to have heard anything from that side. He shook his head indifferently.

“Exchanges with Al-Yabd have been suspended since the beginning of this year.”

“Why?”

“Because the Pope changed.”

“Ah.”

Come to think of it, the current leader of the church is Raphael. The former head of the Inquisition, known for his hardline stance.

Raphael had been notorious as a hardliner since his days as the head of the Inquisition, and his reputation was well-known not only among intelligence agencies but also among other religious organizations.

With such a person elected as Pope, it’s no wonder Al-Yabd wouldn’t continue their exchanges. When a leader with incompatible tendencies is elected, relationships deteriorate—a fairly common occurrence in diplomacy between nations.

“I see there were circumstances.”

I nodded in understanding. Of course, Ibrahim didn’t seem to care much.

“Anyway, now that we know the cultists’ purpose, we just need to figure out their method. How do you think they’ll try to secure Saint Lucia’s blood? Do you have any predictions?”

“If they don’t have a means to secure it discreetly, wouldn’t they use force? If they’re going to draw blood, they’ll probably ambush Saint Lucia with a blade.”

“What about a syringe? Looking at cases of damage by cultists, there seem to be instances where they collected victims’ blood with syringes.”

“That could be one method, but the feasibility is low. Unless Saint Lucia stays still. If they forcibly try to use a syringe, she’ll surely resist, and the needle might come out. Or break.”

He meant there was a high probability of failure.

So they’ll ambush with a blade, then.

As we walked along the barricaded fence with barbed wire, we eventually reached our destination. We agreed to split up here.

Before moving to our positions in preparation for the cultists’ attack, I shared one last piece of information with Ibrahim.

“If the cultists succeed in their attack, they’ll attempt to escape to the Necropolis.”

“The Necropolis? Is that true?”

“Yes.”

I nodded.

“We’ve prepared to send people to the Necropolis in case they flee there, but it’s most important to stop them before they leave the camp.”

“I’ll make sure to stop them. Well, I’ll be going now.”

“Take care.”

“Beware of cultists, brother.”

Ibrahim, pulling his scarf up to his nose, disappeared after a slight bow.

I watched as he blended into the crowd.

As the soldier in civilian clothes vanished.

I turned around and began to walk.

*

The gloomy refugee camp, which had seemed overcast, was unusually lively. This was because an important guest had arrived.

“The 59th Saint of the Church, Saint Lucia, is entering!”

Behind the journalists who continued their broadcast in front of magical recording devices, numerous crowds gathered. Through the densely packed crowd, a woman with platinum blonde hair could be seen.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you. Thank you for your warm welcome.”

Lucia placed her hand on her chest and slightly bowed.

A local man with tanned skin, dressed in a suit, greeted her with a bright smile.

“It’s an honor, Saint! We sincerely welcome your visit to our country!”

The local man in the tight-fitting suit was the president of this country.

Although Al-Yabd believers accounted for 97% of all religious people, and the country had adopted Al-Yabd as its state religion, the authority of a Saint was widely known even in countries hostile to the Church.

Lucia’s visit was approved directly by the government that recognized Al-Yabd as the state religion, and with the international community’s attention focused on it, the president smiled broadly and enthusiastically welcomed Lucia.

“Thank you, Mr. President.”

Lucia slightly bowed her head toward the president with a benevolent smile. A Saint of the Church and a believer of Al-Yabd—it seemed like a strange combination to anyone watching, but the atmosphere was friendly.

And for good reason—Lucia had already treated over 8,000 patients in this country in just two weeks. And all for free.

Natural disasters, civil war, borders collapsed by monsters, and an economic crisis brought on by the Siren riots blocking sea routes. The president, who had been suffering from the threat of a military coup amid an unstable political foundation, began to act like someone who had lost a decade-old weight when a hero appeared to solve the refugee problem that had been giving him a headache.

In fact, if an individual—not even an organization—had treated over 8,000 citizens for free, anyone would welcome them warmly. Even the president, a devout believer of Al-Yabd, was no exception.

That’s why, even as relations between the Church and Al-Yabd were heading toward crisis, the president’s gaze toward Lucia remained infinitely warm. He firmly held the Saint’s hand as if it were a lifeline.

“Really, really, welcome. Your coming to this country must surely be God’s help.”

“Ah, yes. God helped.”

Of course, the God the president believed in and the God the Saint believed in were completely different, but what did it matter?

The two smiled amidst the friendly atmosphere.

“I’d like to see the refugees.”

“How kind-hearted you are. Of course! Let’s go this way. I’ll show you the headquarters.”

The president guided Lucia to the headquarters building located inside the refugee camp. Despite acting as if he would escort her personally, the person who actually guided her was an international aid organization worker stationed at the refugee camp.

After staging the scene of guiding Lucia to the entrance for about 10 seconds, the president went to find journalists with government officials and began to deliver a lengthy speech. Probably because the presidential election was approaching soon.

Of course, it’s an open secret that the voter turnout for this country’s presidential election miraculously exceeds 100%.

“Already campaigning…”

I passed by the president and his security detail, avoiding the journalists’ gaze, and approached Lucia.

“Ah, there you are.”

“It’s good to see you, Lucia.”

Surrounded by aid organization workers and moving, Lucia recognized me and smiled brightly. It was a radiant smile, completely different from when she greeted the president.

I matched my pace with Lucia and walked slowly, offering an apology.

“I’m sorry for delaying the schedule on my own. There were some coordination issues with the peacekeeping forces regarding security.”

According to the original schedule, Lucia should have visited this place yesterday at dawn, but the schedule was changed when the Holy Knights, under the Inquisition’s orders, used security checks as an excuse, delaying the visit by a day.

Although the plan to arrive at the refugee camp as early as possible and start aid activities was disrupted, Lucia didn’t mind at all. Rather, she seemed relieved that she had arrived before it was too late.

“It’s alright. Isn’t it good that I came now at least?”

“That’s surprising. During the last meeting, you said we couldn’t be delayed even by a day.”

“Did I say that?”

Lucia tilted her head slightly and smiled with her eyes.

Then she let out an “Ah!” as if she suddenly remembered.

“Come to think of it, I did say that. But you don’t need to apologize.”

“Why?”

“Because you were worried about me.”

Lucia smiled gently and continued with a broad grin.

“You delayed the schedule because you were worried about me, so how could I blame you? I should be grateful instead.”

“There’s no need to be grateful…”

“But gratitude is gratitude.”

Lucia looked around with a smile on her lips.

As we entered the building while conversing, we found ourselves alone. The aid organization workers had gone into a room labeled “Medical Room” and were busily preparing something, while the holy knights were staying outside for a moment.

Confirming that no one was watching, Lucia finally let out a sigh of relief. Then she took a step closer, stood on her tiptoes, and kissed my cheek.

*Smooch* A small sound accompanied by a soft sensation.

Lucia, who had been on her tiptoes, put her heels back on the ground and smiled broadly.

“Thank you. For worrying about me.”

Momentarily confused by the sudden kiss, I wiped my cheek with my finger.

Regardless, Lucia left with a smile, saying she’d see me later, and went inside.

“…That surprised me.”

I turned my head to check if anyone had seen. Fortunately, there was no one else in the corridor.

After glancing once more at the room Lucia had entered, I quickly left the building and returned to the field.

*

Given that one of only two Saints in the world was visiting, the atmosphere in the refugee camp was festive.

Cheers and shouts loud enough to hurt my ears. Dizziness came with a mild headache.

The same went for the radio. On the secure channel, the operation team’s conversations flowed through.

-“Everyone’s excited. Can you believe all these people are believers of Al-Yabd?”

-“They’re welcoming her because she came to help. Regardless of whether she’s a Church cleric or whatever, she came as a guest.”

-“Check if there are any suicide vests. I heard some madman issued a statement saying he’d detonate a bomb even if it meant killing himself if he saw the Saint. Who knows if he’s here?”

Woof! Woof! Whether responding to the word “bomb” or just wanting to bark, the peacekeeping force’s bomb detection dog began barking at me as it roamed the event venue.

Matt’s voice came through the radio right after.

-“Who’s chatting on the network?”

With just one sentence, he silenced the entire network. He clicked his tongue softly. After changing the frequency, Matt immediately called me.

-“We’ve been watching for 2 hours, but no one stands out. The sniper team monitoring from the high-rise also reports no new information.”

The same was true for the Church’s side.

Ibrahim, who had surveyed the area, shook his head as soon as he met me.

“No sign of the cultist group. How about your brothers?”

“We haven’t found them either.”

“Damn…”

It had already been 2 hours since Lucia arrived at the camp. Currently, she was moving around the camp, making contact with patients.

“What do your team members disguised as security say?”

“They also report no problems. Neither our team members, the holy knights, nor the priests or peacekeeping forces have seen any suspicious individuals.”

“……”

I looked at the Crusader Brigade members guarding Lucia. Silver armor and bulletproof vests, a strange harmony of tradition and science. It’s as if the Swiss Guard at the Vatican would wear such protective gear if divinity were discovered on Earth.

The Crusader Brigade, wearing unusual protective gear that combined armor and bulletproof vests, was armed with automatic rifles and guarding Lucia. Their fierce eyes peered through the balaclava holes, scanning the crowd, but there seemed to be no sign of any perpetrators, as their movements hadn’t changed much from before.

Lucia was peacefully treating refugees. While watching this tranquil scene, I suddenly muttered.

“…Something’s off.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just… everything.”

I don’t know how to express it. Everything felt strange.

A group of cultists who crossed the border with support from the Sanya militia. They infiltrated the camp, targeting Lucia’s blood.

The group consists of four members. The Sanya militia disguised them as refugees. After completing their mission, they plan to flee to the Necropolis to avoid pursuit, and currently, they’re waiting for the moment to extract Lucia’s blood in the camp.

But so far, nothing has happened.

“……”

I pondered as I looked at the calm atmosphere of the camp and Lucia, who was using her divinity without any issues.

What if—really, what if—the intelligence we received was wrong?

As soon as this thought occurred to me, I immediately shook my head.

The intelligence was accurate. Ibrahim’s information, Yunus’s testimony, the materials secured from Sanya’s residence—all evidence supported the fact that a group of cultists had infiltrated this place.

I observed the area. Peacekeeping forces were deployed throughout to guard Lucia.

In preparation for the public death threats and terror threats that had continued for months, the peacekeeping forces had significantly strengthened their security compared to usual, deploying mages and military dogs. On top of that, a diplomat dispatched from the Union was guarding Lucia, in case a terrorist attack occurred.

Let’s think about this.

If I were a terrorist, could I directly attack such a hard target?

“……”

Research on terrorists has been actively conducted since the 9/11 attacks. From Western intelligence agencies like the CIA and SIS to China’s Ministry of State Security and Russia’s Federal Security Service. Numerous intelligence agencies around the world have studied the patterns of terrorism and exchanged opinions to prepare for the rapidly increasing terrorist threats. Of course, the National Intelligence Service is no exception.

What I learned through all those materials and my time spent in the Third World is that terrorists are not idiots who recklessly charge in headfirst.

Terrorists are essentially guerrillas.

They know they can’t win if they attack head-on against local government forces, let alone regular troops dispatched from foreign countries. We know this, and terrorists know it better than anyone.

That’s why they always persistently attack vulnerable areas. Because if they go head-on, only they will die. They avoid hard targets like well-defended military facilities or airports as much as possible, and instead attack relatively vulnerable soft targets like urban areas and hotels.

I look at Lucia again. She is surrounded by numerous security personnel.

Even if I were to assume I was a terrorist, this was not an easy target to attack at all. Even for an intelligence officer or special forces, breaking through that security would require accepting enormous casualties.

The cultists probably know this too. That it’s impossible to break through the holy knights and peacekeeping forces to extract Lucia’s blood.

Then what should they target?

“…Lucia.”

“Yes?”

I called Lucia, who was tending to patients, for a moment. She was treating a child’s broken leg and followed me out, asking what was wrong.

After leading her behind a tent, I took a deep breath and slowly began to speak.

“My question might sound a bit strange, but please don’t take it too oddly. Have you bled since coming here?”

“Blood? Why do you suddenly ask that?”

“I just need to check something. Think carefully and tell me, Lucia.”

“If I’ve bled… I haven’t been scratched or injured, but… Ah, come to think of it, I did have a test.”

“…A test?”

“Yes.”

Lucia answered as if it was nothing unusual.

“There’s been an epidemic among the refugees recently, and the hygiene is poor. There are also local endemic disease issues, so at the request of the international organization staff, I had a blood test. Being a cleric doesn’t mean I can’t get sick.”

“…When did you have this test?”

“Earlier in the headquarters medical room…”

Without waiting to hear the rest, I immediately started running toward the building where Lucia had stayed.

“Broadcasting! All personnel on standby in the current network, head to the headquarters building! I repeat! To the headquarters medical room!”

“What’s happening?!”

“Lucia’s blood was drawn!”

“What?!”

“Blood test! They drew her blood at the headquarters medical room!”

Understanding the situation, Ibrahim started running beside me.

Royal Intelligence Bureau staff who had been blending into the crowd gathered near the refugee camp headquarters. The Crusader Brigade, following Ibrahim’s instructions, split into two teams.

*Crash!*

As uninvited guests rushed into the headquarters, startled staff fell to the floor. Some medical staff spilled medical instruments as they hurriedly tried to clear trays.

I ran through the chaotic corridor with a pistol in hand, kicked open the medical room door, and entered. Ibrahim followed with an automatic rifle, checking the corners.

“All clear.”

“……”

I lowered my hand holding the pistol.

And looked at the window with a dejected face.

“…Ah, damn it.”

The locked window was completely shattered.

And one blood refrigerator was wide open.

It had been 2 hours and 43 minutes since Lucia entered the camp.

Her blood had been stolen by the cultists.